My Husband Bought Me Flowers To Celebrate My Promotion. A Homeless Woman Just Warned Me That Smelling Them Will Kill Me. Should I Trust My Husband Of Five Years Or A Stranger?

“Okay,” he finally said. “Whatever you want.”

He got up and went to the bathroom. Eleanor exhaled. She quickly got dressed: jeans, sweater, jacket. She grabbed her purse, checked that the certificate was in its place. It was.

She shoved a change of clothes and toiletries into a large gym bag she found in the closet. The bag was heavy, awkward, but there was no other choice. Michael came out of the bathroom and saw her with the two bags.

“What’s the gym bag for?”

“It’s my stuff for the pool,” Eleanor lied. “I want to go for a swim after the doctor. The doctor said swimming is good for the lungs. You haven’t been to the pool in 6 months. That’s why I want to start again.”

He nodded, but something flashed in his eyes. Suspicion, distrust. Eleanor didn’t wait to find out. She quickly kissed him on the cheek, the usual morning ritual, and left the apartment.

Behind the trash chute was the bag with the flowers. She grabbed it and ran down the stairs. It was cool outside. The sky was overcast with gray clouds.

Eleanor walked quickly, almost running. The subway station was a 10-minute walk. She went down the escalator, got on the train. She clutched the gym bag to her chest and put the bag with the flowers on the floor, thinking that she was carrying evidence against her own husband. How absurd it sounded, how terrifying.

The police station was on North Clark Street, not far from downtown. Eleanor got off at the right stop, went upstairs. The building was gray, unassuming, with a sign: 18th District Police Station.

She stopped in front of the entrance, gathering her courage. Once she crossed this threshold, there would be no going back. Now she would officially accuse her husband of attempted murder.

Deep breath. Exhale. Go inside.

It was warm. It smelled of official spaces: morning coffee, paper, something else indefinable. The desk sergeant was sitting behind the counter looking through some documents. Seeing Eleanor, he looked up.

“How can I help you?”

“I need to file a report,” Eleanor said, her voice sounding firmer than she expected. “For attempted murder.”

The sergeant straightened up, put down his papers.

“Have a seat. I’ll call a detective.”

Eleanor sat on a hard chair in the hallway clutching her purse. About 5 minutes later, an energetic man in his 40s in a neat suit appeared.

“I’m Detective Miller,” he introduced himself. “Come on back to my office.”

The office was small, cramped, filled with filing cabinets. The detective sat behind his desk and gestured for Eleanor to sit across from him.

“I’m listening.”

Eleanor put her purse and the bags on the floor. Took the certificate out of her purse and placed it on the desk.

“Yesterday my husband brought me flowers. He insisted I smell them. He was very insistent. He watched me, asked if I was sure I had smelled them. I have asthma. These flowers were treated with something that could cause a fatal attack. I didn’t smell them thanks to a woman’s warning.”

Eleanor spoke quickly, in short bursts, afraid that if she stopped she wouldn’t be able to continue.

“I called an ambulance. The paramedic recorded a life-threatening situation. Here is the certificate. Here are the flowers. I want to file a report for attempted murder.”

The detective was silent. He looked at her, then at the certificate, then at the bag with the flowers on the floor. His face remained unreadable.

“Are you sure about what you’re saying?” he finally asked. “Absolutely. Do you have any proof of intent? Witnesses? Other facts besides the bouquet and your husband’s strange behavior?”

Eleanor took out her phone, opened her texts with Michael from the past month, and showed them to the detective.

“Here he writes that he’s having problems at work, that he might be fired, that there’s no money. Here, a week ago, he asked me to sign some papers. He said it was for work. I signed without looking. Now I remember it was related to insurance. I think it was a life insurance policy in case of my death.”

Miller took the phone, carefully studied the messages, then nodded.

“Okay. We’ll check on that. What’s your husband’s name?”

“Michael Vance. He works for Siberian Construction. We live at 17 West Toledo Street, apartment 42.”

The detective wrote it down. Then he looked up.

“Tell me everything in order. From the beginning. Don’t rush.”

Eleanor told him about the promotion, about meeting Cassie, about the warning, about how Michael came home with the bouquet, how he insisted she smell it, how he acted strangely. About how she took the flowers to Cassie, how they called the ambulance, how the paramedic recorded the threat.

Miller listened attentively, occasionally asking clarifying questions. When Eleanor finished, he looked at her seriously.

“This is a serious accusation,” he said. “Attempted murder. If we conduct a forensic analysis, check the insurance, prove intent… your husband is facing up to 15 years. Are you prepared for that?”

Eleanor nodded. “I’m prepared. He wanted to kill me. I can’t just let it go.”

“All right then. Write your statement. Here’s the form.”

He handed her a sheet of paper and a pen. Eleanor wrote, her hand shaking. She wrote that she was accusing her husband Michael Vance of attempted murder by provoking a fatal asthma attack. That he brought her flowers treated with a substance dangerous to asthmatics. That he insisted she smell them. That she was certain it was a premeditated murder plot.

She put her signature, the date, and handed the statement to the detective.